On the Subject of Your Subject
by ForASecondThereWe'dWon
Summary: MJ's spending her summer taking yet another art class, but it's not about the college credit, it's about the practice. She's considering how to fix a sketch when she overhears some classmates discussing their work. While the work might be their own, MJ hears enough to know that the subject most certainly is not. It's time for this studio wallflower to stake a claim on Spider-Man.


**Author's Note:**

Created for Day 6 of Spideychelle Week 2019 on Tumblr!

Today's prompt: College AU

* * *

MJ was very observant. It was one of the two things that had remained constant as time went by (faster all the time, she swore)―the other being the boyfriend she'd had since her junior year of high school. Right now, she was hoping it was the observing thing that was going to eventually get her a job. Oh, she was sure that the boyfriend could get her a job if she asked, but it would almost definitely require crippling overtime, a wardrobe full of metal, and a readiness to go starry-eyed with hero-worship at the mention of the name 'Tony Stark.' Or at least that was the cue she was getting from him. The boyfriend. Peter.

But the job, yeah. So, what she was doing didn't _exactly_ look like laying the foundation for steady employment right _now_, like, _per say_, but between the three years of college still ahead of her, bursaries, and some additional bankrolling from her mother the doctor, MJ was going to use art school to turn her detention caricatures into a career.

Something she'd observed since starting college was that not everybody wanted to be there. MJ found it totally disturbing (if not occasionally warranting a pity laugh) that so many people either barely showed up for classes or _only_ showed up; in her opinion, the former were fledgling adults still acting like children and the latter were today's youth already clocking in and out like weary middle-aged suits.

Meanwhile, she couldn't get enough. Couldn't get enough studio time. Couldn't get enough of her ideas on paper. Enough charcoal under her fingernails. Enough standing behind a canvas until her feet ached, or curved with feral possessiveness around a drawing pad on her lap. Enough lines drawn and redrawn and redrawn and redrawn and redrawn.

So MJ had completed year one (her mom bought a very fancy cake that they ate with their feet up on the coffee table at home, using forks which neither of them could absolutely _confirm_ were clean, since between an on-call doctor's schedule and a student's, nobody had exactly been on top of loading and emptying the dishwasher) and enrolled in a summer class. It was figure drawing, which, yes, she'd already taken as it was a mandatory class―arguably the class upon which all other art classes depended―but while figure drawing had finished with MJ, MJ had not finished with figure drawing. She felt that it was impossible to overlearn the basics, plus the professor she'd had the first time around had been a dick. In fact, MJ believed that there had not been a bigger dick known to humankind since Michelangelo got up close and personal with _David_.

The summer prof was a marked improvement. Less ego, more encouragement. More understanding, less likely to make MJ want to flip her easel and ram one of its legs up their… Warhol. And with fewer students enrolled during the warmer months, there were fewer classes running, and therefore more studio time, which she took gleeful advantage of, with a territorial staking-out of the best spot in the room and the nasty glare she sent towards people who were too friendly. She was gleeful on the inside.

Was that boyfriend mopey about her choosing the art life instead of spending her summer with him? Absolutely not. Peter had his own thing going on (this was how MJ downplayed the daily saving of lives). Besides, they found ways to see each other. Like how she bought the famous Spider-Man a hot dog in Central Park after he turned one end of the skipping ropes for a couple of kids playing Double Dutch. Or how he scared the bejesus out of her while she was painting alone in the studio and glanced around to see what was throwing a shadow on her canvas (just a dork waving at her through the window―a window on the fourth floor).

They had to be careful when Peter was in the suit; it wasn't really safe for any of those freaks ('Earth's Mightiest Heroes,' or whatever) to make potentially skulking bad guys aware that they had less-than-super friends, kids, girlfriends, etc. Lucky for Peter, MJ was incredibly good at careful. It was worth it for the rest of the time that they got to be together without the suit.

The suit wasn't her problem at the moment though. There was no article of clothing (pioneered by Tony Stark or otherwise) that was her problem. Actually, the lack of clothes was the problem, because she was hesitating, hand hovering over a nude sketch that she wanted to fix. MJ squinted. She just couldn't see _how_. A trio of bohemians across the room sent up giggles like scattered pigeons and MJ closed her eyes in irritation. She opened them and stared at the sketch. Yeah, maybe she could stand to watch something else for a while.

With a little subtle angling, she created a line of sight to the other girls. Looked like two of them were clustered around the easel of the third. They were teasing her. Ah, but this particular student―MJ had observed―liked to be teased. It wasn't the common mocking of the scholarship kid or the uninventive, elementary school, lunch money shakedown. It was that sunny, sticky teasing that left extroverts flushed from all the attention. Yuck.

MJ watched the three friends, studied their postures and dynamic. Everything was food for art. Reading their body language might help her sort out her difficulties with this sketch. She assessed them with her ears as well as her eyes; art might have been a largely visual experience for the viewer, but for her, shaping a piece in ways that could never be understood in the passing sweep of a gaze, it was multisensory. Peter might have taught her a little something about that. He claimed that she had her own enhancements, even without the super-biology.

From their words and the giddy pitch, it was obvious that they were tackling the same type of project that MJ was: a nude. She directed her face downward, towards her page, as she rolled her eyes. Art models were just people, not porn stars. Students at this level should really understand that, MJ felt. Giggling over a bared breast or the muscular indent of a man's ass was amateurish.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug off the judgement. Ok, maybe these three were inelegant twerps, but who said twerps couldn't be art? If Dalí could find inspiration in a loaf of bread, then MJ could see how she progressed with a vapid, unoriginal muse. As long as her own work didn't turn out derivative, the girls could present as clichéd a scene of immaturity as they pleased. MJ listened harder and let her grip loosen on her pencil. The lines would come when she was ready.

"You _didn't_," Girl One insisted.

"Of _course_ she didn't." Ooh, bit more of a petty tone from Girl Two. "She just wants the attention. She can't get the grades, so she's hoping to cause enough of a scandal that her work is noticed and somebody pays big bucks for it. Who gives a fuck about a degree when some dude drops a million and puts you on the map?"

"Oh, I'm sure it's not that big of a deal," said The Artist Herself. MJ blinked a few times in case any of that false modesty was airborne, keeping her eyes free of the irritants her ears couldn't help but admit.

"Everyone's going to freak," Girl One squealed effervescently.

"Are you sure I shouldn't stay quiet instead? Just keep this piece for myself or… maybe give it to him?"

"You _can't_! This would be, like, a cultural phenomenon."

_Don't get ahead of yourselves_, MJ thought wryly.

Girl Two snorted, earning her a moment of approval from the observer.

"But no one's even going to know it's him," the skeptic argued.

MJ frowned. All of their models this term had been female. Sure, it was reasonable that the artist could've had someone else pose for her―either professionally or casually (though MJ didn't have that kind of relationship with any of _her_ friends)―but it sounded like the girl's plan A was to submit her piece as part of her coursework. That didn't add up. Their instructor preferred that the students work from the same subject, one that the professor themselves was familiar with so that they could properly assess the fidelity of the rendering.

"They'll know by the title," The Artist Herself asserted.

"You'll still have to give him a face, Mel."

"It's kind of avant-garde this way though, right?" Girl One's comment was plenty chipper.

"It's a copout," Girl Two stated. "If you really slept with him and you're prepared to tell the tale, you can't just call the thing 'Spider-Man in Repose' and leave it at that."

They carried on with their playful chatter, but MJ's hearing had fuzzed out. What they were saying―that this art bitch had nailed _her_ dork of a boyfriend―was impossible. She didn't need to endorse the ridiculous claim by actually asking Peter if it was true. No, MJ wasn't heartbroken or confused, she was angry. Didn't they, any one of them, consider Spider-Man's privacy? The respect he had earned as a public figure? He wasn't just a mask, or a picture of that mask on a souvenir t-shirt. This would be libel if Spider-Man's real identity was known to the general public. Little kids needed to see their hero on the morning news helping old ladies across the street and rescuing animals from burning buildings, not as the subject in some horny coed's mediocrity.

"―it seriously. This is probably the only case where people are more interested in seeing a celebrity's face than his dick."

The pencil fell from MJ's fingers and she didn't pick it up, more focused on controlling her expression so she'd look unaffected if any of them glanced over.

"Sandra, _stop_," Girl One twittered.

MJ supported the sentiment, if not the tone of voice. She lifted her foot and deliberately stomped on the end of her pencil, snapping the point. Uh oh, it looked like she'd have to go to the supply room to find a sharpener. It was located through a door half a dozen feet behind the other girls. Convenient for sneaking a look at whatever was on that canvas, which would enable her to come up with a tailored plan to fix this.

She began with a loud sigh and a forlorn look at her broken pencil. Again, not trying to be quiet, she pushed her sketch aside and crossed the room. The girls were still talking. Maybe they hadn't forgotten MJ was there. Maybe they were crossing their fingers that she was a shit-stirrer. A patient zero for the gossip they were hoping to benefit from spreading. She circled around them and darted into the supply room, swinging the door only partially shut while she rattled a box of pencils before coaxing as much noise as possible out of the most ancient-looking sharpener she could find.

"Would you do him again?" Girl One asked.

"If she says no," Girl Two cut in, "then she's _definitely_ making it up. Who the hell would hit-it-and-quit-it with Spider-Man? Especially if he's that ripped under the suit."

MJ crept to the threshold and looked in their direction. The Artist Herself shifted from one foot to the other, contemplating her own work, and MJ finally got a look at the unfinished painting. In its technical aspects, it was fine. Not accomplished, not garbage. So, better than she'd been expecting. It just wasn't Peter. Even without a face, it wasn't Peter. Peter _was_ ripped―not that these people knew that, or ever would―but this wasn't his body as she'd come to know it. Which was extremely well.

Grinning, MJ hurried back to her sketchbook and flipped it shut. Watching the girls from a different angle had made her consider a new approach to her block with her work in progress, but that wasn't what propelled her out of the studio. She had an amazing idea.

* * *

"I don't see how this solves the problem," Peter said. "It still generates Spider-Man gossip."

"But if it involves me, _no one will believe it_," MJ emphasized, grabbing his shoulder. "I'm background noise in that studio. I'm furniture, Peter. I've never tried to be the center of attention and we can _use_ that."

He narrowed his eyes, but she could see the trust in them, like always.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You're just confused because this is a plan and those are foreign to you." She gave him a sad smile and released his shoulder with a consoling squeeze.

"Hey―what? I-I plan," he said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Yep, this was the body of _her_ Spider-Man, not that generic canvas Adonis.

"You're impulsive and adaptable. You can think on your feet in the middle of a fight, but, babe, you don't plan."

"But what about―"

"Peter."

"There was that time I―"

"Peter."

He sighed.

"Ok, when are we gonna do this?"

* * *

The research was really only two steps: showing up on campus at different times to learn when The Artist Herself (and co.) normally arrived, and figuring out how to unlatch one of the large studio windows. Both of these elements fit extremely easily into MJ's schedule.

The friends' interest in the Spider-Man portrait seemed to rise and fall and rise again; frequently, they actually worked on their own pieces instead of gossiping. Ok, instead of _only_ gossiping. They still gossiped. Whenever it wasn't about the unfathomably unrealistic Spider-Man affair, MJ drowned them out with headphones and made progress on her sketch.

She gave it a week―the recon―because that was a standard length of time and the mission felt more scientific that way. Ugh, these were Peter's words. Her head was full of Avengers vernacular these days, all mixed up with a spectrum of graphite hardnesses and the names of a couple dozen French landscape painters. That was how MJ really knew her body wasn't going to one day reject Peter like a mismatched blood donation. He'd become part of her mental vocabulary, and that was her sanctuary.

She hustled him through the propped-open window and into her _physical_ sanctuary, the studio, on a Friday. Midmorning and the light was clear and white. The room would transform around 4:30pm when a hot afternoon glow inflamed the space through westward-facing glass, but this earlier, crisper light was good for a lot of things. Uniform illumination across textured sheets of watercolour paper. Fidelity of oil paint colours roughly blended and scraped with a palette knife. Minimal shadows cast as Peter's feet, saran-wrapped into his Spidey suit, landed on the wood floor. With heavier footfalls, thanks to her black combat boots, MJ led him to the supply room and shut them in.

"Cutting it a little close," she complained, glancing at her watch.

"I was on my way," Peter said, gesturing widely (what kept MJ calm was the knowledge that his superhuman agility would make sure he caught anything he knocked over before it hit the ground), "and then there was this guy trying to grand theft auto a _flour truck_ out in front of this bakery." He pointed like the bakery was hiding just across the room behind the industrial-sized jugs of linseed oil. Peter deflated, mind snapped swiftly into the present. "Long story short, the bakery owner promised me free bagels if you wanna go after."

MJ nodded, trying to tame her fond smirk. She would've loved him just as much if his biology had been totally garden-variety, but Peter in the suit―eyes of his mask widening as he relayed his latest crime bust―was adorable.

"After."

"Ok… ok, great."

Peter attempted to lean casually into a stack of collapsed easels, which squeaked loudly across the floor, threatening a noisy topple, before he jerked upright and steadied them. The way he'd never gotten calmer about her saying yes to a date was pretty adorable too.

"So, when are they―"

MJ heard the door to the studio bang open and slapped a hand across the mouth area of her boyfriend's mask. Her palm didn't actually obstruct his words, but the action silenced him. He tensed at her side as they tilted their heads, listening. A more minor part of the mission―dammit, _plan_―had been for MJ to make sure there were enough easels, brushes, and various other tools of the trade out on and around the counter that spanned one wall of the studio; the last thing she and Peter needed was an unsuspecting audience member striding into the supply room. Oh, those girls would know they were in here, but it wasn't going to be by accident.

"You don't think they'll leave when they hear us?"

MJ shivered―Peter's lips were right against her ear. She hadn't heard him peel up his mask and lean in. Turning her head slightly, she tried to respond just as softly.

"Not these three. They're shamelessly curious."

"You're sure?"

God, her face was getting hot. He was just talking to her. Talking at a whisper. Fine, it was kinda sexy, though there were things besides his last-second questioning of her brilliant plan that she'd rather have heard in that voice.

"You didn't see the painting," MJ reminded him.

"Yeah, there's that," Peter allowed.

They waited a few minutes longer, enduring the insignificant chatter and grating laughter coming from the studio. MJ tried to keep as still as Peter. Gradually, the human sounds lessened and were replaced by the _glop_ of a brush through too much paint, the _hiss_ of that same brush across a taut canvas. She looked at him and nodded.

"We're starting?" he murmured.

MJ turn away from the door and smacked the center of his chest, turning the Spidey suit into a slack mass that Peter reflexively caught in his elbows before it could fall all the way down. She raised her eyebrows. Peter let the suit drop.

"This isn't very romantic," he complained quietly, yanking his feet free and piling the suit on the lid of a large tub of gesso.

"Yeah, well, we can't exactly do this with the suit on."

"The mask?"

MJ assessed his face, everything below his nose uncovered.

"I think half-off is fine, in case they barge in. The lower part of your face isn't very distinctive."

She twisted towards the door once more. At this point, they were supposed to be past discussion. Peter really didn't understand the concept of planning something in advance, even when they _had_ planned this in advance.

"Again with the lack of romance," he griped, suddenly pressed up right behind her. Immediately, MJ's heart was pounding more fiercely.

"Trying to be practical, nerd."

Her voice didn't come out overly stern, not with Peter's hands touching down very lightly on her hips.

"But what do I always say when we order pizza and you try to get me to choose between bacon and ham?"

"You don't need that much meat on a pizza. It's high in sodium."

His sigh ruffled the hair hanging in a loose ponytail against the back of her neck.

"No, that's what _you_ always say. What do _I_ say?"

Pressing her palm to the door, MJ let her eyes slide closed. One of Peter's hands had ducked under the hem of her shirt. She felt the side of his thumb skim her abdomen.

"That you prefer both," she replied.

He made a low agreeing noise, flattened his palm against her for a second, then rotated his hand to unbutton her jeans. There was a surge within her. Peter always turned her on, but this was a fresh excitement. Subtly, MJ pressed her hips forward. She heard him breathe harder. His other hand moved from her hip to grasp the waist of her jeans while he unzipped them. She could feel it. She could feel him behind her, rising and thickening. Dipping his hands into her undone jeans, Peter nosed her hair out of the way to kiss her for the first time since they'd entered the room, on the side of her neck.

"I think I prefer both too," she said.

She felt his teeth as he smiled and pushed against his crotch in response. His groan was abbreviated to a grunt when he clamped his mouth shut; the clench of Peter's jaw bumped her throat. MJ grinned to herself and rolled into him again. There wasn't any hesitancy as his fingers pried the thin elastic edge of her underwear away from her skin and plunged one hand beneath it. She gasped aloud and the fact that they were doing this for a reason came back to her. That didn't mean being overheard had to be the _only_ reason.

Because MJ knew it was one of Peter's weaknesses, she grasped his wrist, slowly smoothing her hand down to lay flat on the back of his, and urged it further. He panted, kissing her neck, more loosely this time. Reaching up and back with her other hand, she toyed with the little flick of hair at back of his neck, right where it started to curl if he went too long between haircuts―exposed below the peeled up mask. With a shudder, Peter stroked a finger through her increasing arousal. Her hand tensed on his. A subtle widening of her stance wouldn't be quite so subtle to the guy whose super-senses allowed him to notice the tiniest details even when distracted, but so be it. It wasn't like he didn't already know how she wanted him to touch her.

She turned her head, disengaging Peter's before bringing him back just as quickly with a thorough kiss. Continuously, MJ's fingers stroked his hairline. Goosebumps spread across the back of his neck.

"Let me know," she said in a teasing voice, pausing to lick his lower lip, "if I'm being too romantic."

Peter's lips smiled against hers.

"And you tell me…" His mouth remained open, questioning almost, as he traced her opening with the tip of his finger. MJ exhaled roughly. "…if I get too practical."

With that, Peter withdrew his hand (she would not admit to actually fucking _whimpering_ in disappointment), grabbed her hips, and spun her, forcing her back against the door. The resultant _thud_ was followed by confused-sounding voices from their prey in the studio. Exhilarated more than panicked, MJ looked her boyfriend sternly in the eyes of his mask.

"We need to make more noise, now, before they come to investigate," she murmured.

Appearing to barely make contact with his fist, Peter forced another thump out of the door. MJ rolled her eyes, heartrate dropping.

"Not like that. They'll just think somebody's locked in here."

"Like what then?"

"Like… sex-type noises," she said, gesturing vaguely before folding her arms around his neck, fingers back to playing with his hair.

The only problem with Peter's improvising was that he didn't give her enough time to check him out―wearing nothing but his boxers and folded-up mask―before he did it. He just stepped close and snatched the jeans and underwear down her legs, then cupped his hand between them. MJ panted in surprise and reawakened desire. It wasn't loud enough. They both knew it.

Necessity was supposed to be the mother of invention, but she figured the smirk on Peter's face right before he stroked his finger inside her was necessity's other child. MJ sighed in pleasure and paired it with a look that said, _about time, nerd_. Though he dug in deeper, he would only curl his finger slightly, making her hips wriggle and, consequently, bump against the door.

Shit, there were footsteps heading their way. Peter had it handled―MJ flushed retroactively at her mental double-entendre―pressing another finger into her and hooking both firmly. She let out a genuine wail.

From the other side of the door, a hysterical giggle.

MJ didn't care what they said, just that the girls stayed in the studio―_that_ was vital. Rather than straining to hear the specific words constructing the scandalized tone, she pulled Peter closer. Running a palm down his chest, she had him faintly trembling before she suddenly grasped his erection through his boxers. He groaned loudly enough to send a prickle down MJ's spine. Now the listeners would know there were two people in here, instead of a lone pervert masturbating to the sight of uniformly sharpened coloured pencils. (She did _enjoy_ being surrounded by beautiful new art supplies, just not in a way that made her want to go _American Pie _on them.)

Biting lightly along Peter's jaw (so maybe she thought the lower part of his face was more special and alluring than she'd implied), MJ released her hold on him, only to sneak her hand inside his boxers and grasp him properly. He was hot and pulsing in her palm, breath muggy on the side of her face. It intensified her pleasure. She stroked him, steady and torturous, and eased down on his fingers as Peter continued his own motions.

"You're getting me so wet, Spider-Man," MJ breathed.

Peter tilted his head away.

"Louder," he said.

She kissed him before taking a good look at his parted lips and the pink of his cheeks, delicate as a watercolour wash. Peter interrupted her study.

"They should hear you say it," he prompted, glancing down to where he fingered her. "So they know you're in here with him. Me."

Gradually, still grinding down on his hand as he kept a fixed momentum, MJ grinned.

"Would it really be for their benefit, or yours?"

Peter looked up immediately. His gaze slid from one of her eyes to the other. Suddenly, he jabbed his fingers more insistently. MJ gasped and automatically squeezed her fist, making her boyfriend lurch closer.

"Let me see you for a minute," she said. It stopped being a request as she pushed his mask up herself.

He raised his free hand, trailing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then slapped his palm to the door, making it (and her heart) jump. Biting down on her lip, she tempered and tenderized her excited smile.

"Just say it," Peter demanded, brown eyes molten.

Letting her head tip back and hit the door, MJ repeated herself at a much higher volume. That got the girls in the studio talking again.

"Better?" she asked Peter, looking him square in the eye. He shook his head.

"I didn't like that one either."

His thumb went to her clit and she rubbed while he held still, fingers unmoving inside her.

"Suggestions?"

MJ was trying for nonchalant. The truth was that she couldn't manage a full sentence, not at the moment, not while a tingle like static charge was building, climbing her body from the location of Peter's thumb. He gave her a kind, very normal, Peter sort of smile.

"Say it to me."

Locking eyes with him, MJ rotated her wrist, caressing up and down his length. She saw his jaw clench.

"You're getting me so wet, Spider-Man."

Peter exhaled evenly.

"Condom?"

"Front pocket."

First, his hand went from the door into his boxers, gently unwrapping her fingers from his dick with an expression of great sacrifice on his face. Continuing to gaze back at her, Peter pushed his boxers off and nudged them away with the side of his foot. MJ lowered her eyes to sweep his body, but when they came back up, she discovered he hadn't quit looking at her. With another trust-inspiring smile, he knelt. Dextrous fingers retrieved the condom from her jeans. Peter kissed her hip, her inner thigh, before helping her out of her boots and clothing the rest of the way. Only her thin t-shirt stayed on, and he could probably feel her nipples through that, especially when he straightened up and lifted her by the backs of her thighs. MJ's hand met his against her leg and she took charge of the condom, opening it and then unrolling it on him.

"Already feels good," Peter told her. She kissed him for a lengthy minute in exchange for his honesty. And for his desire for her, currently standing rigid between them. "M," he whispered fervently as their mouths parted.

Her inner thighs clamped to his hips as she shifted, angling herself. Ready. He was careful not to hide his grin as he tugged the mask back down over his eyes and nose. Peter's expression became focused as he followed her guiding hand, delving into her. Already too worked up to receive him slowly, MJ used her legs to draw him all the way in, although it stopped her breath. When she inhaled, the sound in her ears was of someone surfacing from a deep dive.

"Spider-Man," MJ said, loud, clear, hungry.

Peter thrust.

"Oh, _Jesus_," she gasped, though she'd only ever found religion in paintings; angels―good and terrible―in unearthly detail, or obscured by heavenly backlighting.

Her boyfriend spoke to her like mindreading was part of his lunchbox assortment of superpowers.

"How would _you_ paint me," Peter asked, begging while he commanded. Another thrust, deeper. She clung to his shoulders.

"Haloed," MJ panted.

Surging forward, he kissed her messily. She did nothing to bring order to the kiss, tongue twisting and tumbling with Peter's, moaning lustfully into his mouth. He rocked his hips even harder when MJ clawed her fingers into his hair beneath the mask and took a good grip. She didn't know anymore if they were noisy, couldn't count how many times his driving thrusts tested the strength of the door. Every breath shaky, MJ rolled what felt like her entire body. She sweat―the room's circulation was poor and the day must have been getting hotter―and Peter's hand smoothed greedily over her hip and up to her waist, under her t-shirt.

His other hand supported her, the grip on her leg soft yet strong, and MJ was confident, throwing her hips down onto his, caught by a solid prod and the best feeling in the world. Peter bucked faster and her hand clamped to the back of his neck, the other sticky on his shoulder. Formless, desperate sounds left her mouth, giving up on the kiss, and convinced her boyfriend to reach between her legs and manipulate her clit in tight circles.

"Spide… Spi… Sp…"

MJ climaxed, yanking Peter's torso to hers, and squeezing her eyes shut. Things were blurry, even inside her head. Holding tight to thighs that felt only distantly like her own, Peter strove through a final handful of thrusts, ending in a completion that heaved MJ's limp body into the door one last time. They waited it out, the calming. She wanted to tell him that he was her hero for not having weak human arms, which might have been worn out by the sex and set her bare ass down on the supply room floor (ew), but she prioritized breathing. There would be other opportunities to make the nerd blush.

Peter exhaled forcefully after a little bit.

"Are you good? Do you wanna stand?" He pulled back, swiping hair away from her face. Damn ponytail had been too loose.

"Yeah."

MJ's feet touched the floor and she stepped around Peter. That was when her legs forgot how to be legs and she tripped over a massive roll of bubble wrap. The jolt woke her up, but it was Peter's quick hands that caught her.

"_Now_ I'm good," she said, a little giddy.

"Ok."

Peter's hands backed off, but his arms stayed extended towards her.

"Relax." Her voice probably wasn't sarcastic enough to hide how sweet she thought he was being. "If I need rescuing while I put my pants on, you'll be the first to know."

They dressed quickly―meaning MJ did her best, skipping her socks (they went into her pocket), while Peter stood there, already in his full Spider-Man suit. Yeah, if her outfit was a single sausage casing, she'd be fast too. She assumed the condom had made it into the large trash can, alongside pencil shavings and her classmates' scrapped ideas.

"Show off," she mumbled.

"Hey, I don't want to keep the bakery guy waiting. I have a lot of respect for the schedule of a man who wants to give me free bagels."

MJ couldn't see the smirk on his face since he'd pulled the mask down, but she could hear it.

"Yeah, yeah. Go out the window and I'll meet you two blocks down, like we planned."

Peter nodded and she let him hold the door for her as they stepped out into the studio. Looked like the audience had hung around. Applause would've been nice, MJ couldn't lie.

"Until next time," she told Spider-Man, ignoring the others for a moment.

He did a lame little salute that she was definitely never going to let him do again before bounding to the window and scrambling out. Maybe it was smoother than a scramble, but she was suffering from the lameness of the salute.

"How's the painting going?" she asked The Artist in a tone of colossal disinterest once Spider-Man was out of sight.

Before the girl could answer―or maybe she couldn't, all three of them did look pretty stunned―MJ strolled to the far end of the studio and collected her sketchbook and pencils, tucking them into her bag. The trio continued to stare at her as she leisurely returned and circled behind them to scrutinize the artwork for herself.

"Huh," she said, and headed for the door.

One of them―Girl Two, if her memory served―managed a few words.

"Was that…?"

MJ turned back to them, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

"Yeah."

With a ridiculous feeling of power, she approached them again and pointed at the painting of so-called 'Spider-Man.' Her finger made a circle in the air in front of not-Peter's crotch.

"You haven't been generous enough here," she critiqued. "I'd drop his name from the title, if I were you. The inaccuracy gives the whole thing away. Not that any of you will ever get the chance to see for yourselves."

This time MJ didn't pause on her way out, just called back, "Have a _super_ weekend," and let the door bang behind her.


End file.
